


Knight Fell

by charliebrown1234



Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Character Death, Hurt Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poison, Poisoning, Whumptober 2020, Wolfsbane Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 07:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27150016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charliebrown1234/pseuds/charliebrown1234
Summary: It’s a beautiful day in King Arthur’s kingdom, and Crowley has come to see Aziraphale compete in the yearly tournament. However, Aziraphale doesn't seem to be in any shape to compete.Written for Whumptober 2020, prompt #22. Poisoned.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Whumptober 2020 [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1959883
Comments: 9
Kudos: 45





	Knight Fell

**Author's Note:**

> No 22. DO THESE TACOS TASTE FUNNY TO YOU?
> 
> **Poisoned** | Drugged | Withdrawal

It’s a beautiful day in King Arthur’s kingdom, and Crowley has come to see Aziraphale compete in the yearly tournament. He’s supposed to be competing in hand to hand combat, and Crowley is looking forward to seeing the angel thoroughly trounce some unwitting humans. 

There Aziraphale is now, moving onto the field. His armor shines in the midday sun, gleaming with holy might and righteousness. Except, he seems to be staggering a bit, his heavy steps making his armor shift loudly. Well, that isn’t right. Aren’t knights supposed to carry themselves with dignity or something?

Aziraphale’s faceplate is down, so Crowley can’t get a read on his expression, but the way Aziraphale is walking makes him drunk. Or at the very least like he has a concussion. Which would be ridiculous, of course. Angels can’t get concussions, for one thing, and Aziraphale takes this whole “chivalrous” knight thing very seriously and wouldn’t compete three sheets to the wind. So why - ?

Aziraphale comes to a halt in the center of the arena, listing to one side. The other knight in the center speaks to him, but Aziraphale waves him off, turning to face King Arthur instead. King Arthur looks dubiously at him, but when Aziraphale manages a shaky bow and turns back to face the other knight, Arthur looks resigned and shouts, “Begin!” 

Aziraphale barely brings his shield up to block his opponent's first blow. His shield makes a dull thud as Aziraphale staggers backward, almost tripping over his sword as it dangles from his hand. He makes a weak attempt at a riposte, slashing upwards, but the other knight deflects it cleanly away. 

The other knight speaks again, his tone muffled and concerned, and Aziraphale pulls his sword up defensively in response. The other knight seems to shrug, pauses for a moment, then pulls back his sword to land a punishing overhead blow. Aziraphale crumples, collapsing like a deck of cards. The other knight takes a step back as Aziraphale fumbles for his face plate and vomits onto the ground. 

From what Crowley can see at this distance, Aziraphale looks miserable. His body curls weakly inward, like he’s trying to protect himself from further blows. King Arthur shouts that the match is finished and a new pair of knights enter the arena, but Crowley only has eyes for Aziraphale. Two different knights come to carry him off the field, as Aziraphale doesn’t seem to be able to stand without assistance. They move haltingly towards the edge of the arena, Aziraphale loose limbed and stumbling, and Crowley pushes through the growing crowd to receive them. 

“Is he drunk?” asks one observer. 

“Had a few too many to drink, sir knight?” says another voice.

Aziraphale looks even worse close up, face flushed and eyes rolling. 

“If you could all give me some space, please,” Crowley says with an authoritative voice. “I am a physician.” 

“Now, see here,” says a large man with a satchel. “King Arthur has appointed _me_ as the physician for his tournament, and I -”

Crowley shoots the man a nasty look, and King Arthur’s physician suddenly finds himself with an urgent need to defecate.

“Now, if you will bring this man to my tent, I will see that he receives aid,” Crowley says, gesturing for the knights carrying Aziraphale to follow. Crowley’s set up shop on the outskirts of the tournament in case he needs to make a hasty escape, but he finds himself regretting that now. Aziraphale is visibly struggling, and halfway to Crowley’s tent he groans miserably and pukes down the front of his armor. The two knights carrying him make noises of revulsion and shift their holds, trying to keep their hands away from the mess.

“In here,” Crowley says, opening the flap to the tent. The two knights drop Aziraphale on Crowley’s mat and leave quickly, unwilling to linger. _Good,_ Crowley thinks. Aziraphale doesn’t need a pair of humans gawking at him as he recovers from whatever this is. Crowley miracles away the sick with a wave of his hand, then starts working on the shoulder buckles of Aziraphale’s armor. 

“C-Crowley?” Aziraphale says. 

“Yeah, it’s me,” Crowley says, lifting away the front plate. 

“What are you doing?”

“Taking your armor off, what does it look like I’m doing?” Crowley grumbles. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says breathily. Then, “I’m going to be sick.” 

Aziraphale turns weakly onto his side and pukes, but only brings up bile. 

“Just take it easy,” Crowley says, miracling away the second bout of mess. 

Aziraphale, hunched over and squirming, does not seem to have heard him.

“What’s wrong with you anyway?” Crowley asks. 

“I don’t - know,” Aziraphale says. His breathing is heavy and labored, and he seems to be fighting back nausea. “I - ” Aziraphale pukes again, bile now slightly bloody. 

Crowley offers Aziraphale a cloth to wipe his mouth, then vanishes the mess a second time. 

“Did you eat something bad?” Crowley says. He should probably work on removing the armor from Aziraphale’s legs next. 

“Nghhh,” Aziraphale manages.

This feels wrong. Aziraphale rarely gets sick, and never from food. Crowley can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Aziraphale ill, and most of them involved acts of desecration or Hell tainted blades. On a hunch, Crowley leans close to Aziraphale and sniffs his breath. It smells like bile, but underneath… Crowley flicks out his tongue, identifies the meaty soup Aziraphale had eaten and notes of the local wine. And…there. The faint scent of something else underneath. 

“Crowley, please,” Aziraphale says, pushing Crowley away. He pulls his gauntlet off and clumsily wipes at his face. 

“I don’t know what to tell you, angel, you ate something funny,” Crowley says, sitting back on his haunches. 

Aziraphale moans in response, curling tighter around his stomach and hissing.

“Can’t you heal yourself?” Crowley asks, a little concerned by the display.

“Can’t focus,” Aziraphale grits out. “It burns!” 

“It burns?” Crowley says confusedly. 

“My stomach, it - ah!” Aziraphale twists, then pukes again. 

Crowley miracles it away with scarcely a thought, and asks, “Aziraphale, does anything else burn? Any tingling or numbness?” 

Aziraphale doesn’t respond. 

“Aziraphale, this is important!” Crowley says, shaking Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Where else does it hurt? Do you have any numbness?” 

“Stop shaking me,” Aziraphale rasps. “My hands.” 

“And?” 

“Can’t feel my feet.” 

“Shit!” Crowley curses. “Shit, shit, shit!”

“Crowley.” A remonstration and plea in equal measure. 

“I think it’s wolfsbane, angel.” 

“Oh, bugger.” Aziraphale says, sounding slightly peeved.

Crowley almost wants to laugh at that, except there’s nothing remotely amusing about the situation. Wolfsbane doesn’t have a cure, at least not yet, and Crowley has seen how it’s victims go. He doesn’t want to see Aziraphale go through something similar. 

“How...will I go?” Aziraphale asks.

“You don’t want to know.” 

Aziraphale gags weakly in response, grasping at his stomach.

“How long?”

“A few hours at most? I don’t know how much you ate.” Crowley says, eyeing Aziraphale. He looks even worse now, sickly and pained as he slowly squirms on the ground. 

Aziraphale grimaces, teeth glinting in the dim light. “Will you do me a favor then?” 

“Dependssss on the favor.” 

“Discorporate me.”

“What?” Crowley yelps. “I’m not gonna discorporate you.”

“Crowley, please.” Aziraphale’s eyes are bright and intent. “There’s no cure, I - ” Aziraphale gags, curls into a miserable ball. “Please,” he groans. “I don’t want to -”

Aziraphale pukes again, but nothing comes up. He shudders, opens his mouth to speak, but is forced to clamp it shut as he swallows down another wave of nausea. 

“Give me...a knife, then.” 

“I don’t have a knife,” Crowley says, dismayed and despairing all at once.

“Then use your fangs!!” Aziraphale snaps. “Aren’t you a snake?” He looks terrible, like he’s dying, and Crowley is fairly certain he wouldn’t have brought up Crowley being a snake otherwise. 

Crowley’s hurt silence is loud in the quiet of the tent, and Aziraphale’s voice takes on a pleading tone.

“You can tell Hell...you discorporated an angel.” Aziraphale tempts. “It’d be… a real feather in your cap.” Aziraphale is forced to pause for breath every few words.

Crowley just looks at him, weighing his odds. Wolfsbane doesn’t kill quickly; instead it drags the death out over several hours. Aziraphale will probably puke more and feel like his stomach is tearing him apart, and then he’ll feel a creeping numbness, and then if Crowley’s lucky Aziraphale will fall into a coma before he can no longer breathe. Does Crowley really want to watch that? 

No, he doesn’t. 

“All right. I’ll help,” Crowley says. And then he begins to make preparations.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Crowley exits the tent. He feels vaguely ill, but he’s trying not to think about that. In fact, Crowley is trying very hard to not think about anything at all. As he fastens the tent closed behind him, part of Crowley’s brain wonders vaguely about what he ought to do with the body, but the part that’s actively suppressing thought informs him that it’s not his problem.

With a little stumble, Crowley heads towards the nearest stall selling alcohol. A messy wave of his hand changes his appearance, guaranteeing he won’t be recognized, and a snap fills his pockets with enough coin to get thoroughly soused. If he wants to be dead to the world in the next hour (poor choice of words), he needs to start drinking immediately. 

Only unconsciousness will actually allow him to forget everything that’s happened here today. With a gesture of his hand, Crowley transforms his newly purchased ale into something far more potent and begins to drink his troubles away. With any luck, Aziraphale will be recorporated by the time he wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to Turcote for helping me workshop this all the way back in September, she's a real friend in these trying times.
> 
> Also, real life fun fact: Wolfsbane (Aconite poisoning) is really hard to detect, and we still don’t have a cure for it today!


End file.
